Fugue
by Claraon
Summary: If you didn't hate such cliches, you'd call the piano your refuge. House-centered, hints of Huddy.


Disclaimers : Don't own anything, not even my computer.

A/N: Beta credit goes to atlantisfan101. Minor spoilers for season 2 in the end.

* * *

You're six years old and intrigued.

It's late and you should be in bed, but something woke you up, something coming from the living room. As you walk down the corridor, you realise that this something is your father, or rather, the old piano sitting in a corner of the living room, that your father has revived.

He only has to raise his head to spot you listening at the threshold, and if he does, you'll be in trouble. No son of his should exit his room after curfew. But you can't bring yourself to leave just yet, amazed by the life dripping from his fingers onto the keyboard, slowly flooding the room. You close your eyes, and muse at each note turning into chord; each sound turning into music.

In a few days, he will be gone again. This time, you decide, you won't let the instrument draw back to silence.

oOo

You're twelve years old and anguished.

Some would say you know this song like the back of your hand, but you don't like the phrase, and think your hands themselves must have a memory of their own, as you watch them move over the keyboard.

You like the feeling, almost hypnotizing, and you repeat the piece over and over again, each time a bit louder.

Thus, you wish the music could cloud the insults and pieces of porcelain that are flying behind the door. He's yelling and she's pleading, and your musical mist is simply too thin to haze over their thundering frustration.

oOo

You're twenty-two years old and excited.

Alcohol started to sing through your veins before you even sat at the piano, and a small group of people gathered to listen, leaving the rest to dance and throw up further away on the terrace. You don't really care about getting the attention of those girls with ridiculously short skirts, and those guys with ridiculously large egos.

The most important is that _she_'s there, sitting at the bar, and pretenting to be interested in whatever story a cocky undergrad is telling her. Pretending only, because by the regular glances she shoots in your direction, and the tip of her heel absent-mindedly beating in rhythm, you can tell the one she's actually listening to is you.

When a drunken voice raises from behind you and asks "Wow ! Nice improv G-man ! How'd you come up with that?", she turns around. Catching her eye, you grin then shrug; she knows the explanation.

oOo

You're twenty-six and drained.

A box of old vinyls and medical textbooks is all that is left in the living room, saved of course for your piano, desert island in an ocean of emptiness. You have the stubble of a castaway, and like him, you're at loss of an escape plan. Your pretty metaphor makes her ship, but ironically,she wasn't so much as wrecked; merely sailed off without turning back. 

You reach for the glass of whisky resting on top of a sheets of music pile, your left hand fumbling on disjointed chords, and you know you shouldn't have let the rope of your so-called relationship slip away so easily. Because you were never good at wallowing in self-pity, you slam the cover on the keys. The piano tells of its disapproval with a growl, reverberating along the naked walls.

She's gone her way, and soon,you decide, you will too.

oOo

You're forty-five years old and relieved.

Tonight, one more file has left the drawer of unsolved puzzles, and you proved to yourself once more that you, almost always, eventually get it right. The last of the guests are making their way out through the glassy entrance doors, following the solemn march you play in honor of Esther.

You smell her before you can see her, and when she stumbles next to the piano, steading herself with a hand on your shoulder, you know she probably has had one too many drinks tonight. But you also know how rare such occasions are for her, when she lowers the shield of the ever-so-professional Dean of Medicine, and allows herself to actually enjoy the moment.

You turn to her, and see in her blue eyes a "thank you" she won't bring herself to mouth. When she takes a seat next to you, the march has slowed down into a melody that says "You're welcome", because despite your regular, theatrical altercations, words were never really needed between the two of you .

* * *

Constructive critism is always appreciated. : ) 


End file.
